The Red Owl was more of a gang of outlaws than it was a mining company or even a proper company at all. Butterfield and his right hand Sam Stone had come into power some years ago after Bardwell and Deadeye Bob James had run across some of the company’s board members in a dry little river town where the lawmen took the upper hand on the miners and hauled those left alive back to Sacramento.
“They tell that we’re getting two men to help us out on this one,” Curtis said, striking a parlor match and putting the flame to one of his cigars. “Is that so?”
Bardwell nodded. “I believe that it is,” he said. “We’re to meet up with Jaxen Castro and his half brother Silas Ritchie, good men, the both of them.”
Curtis laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Bardwell asked.
“Is Castro still shooting those big Dragoon pistols?” Curtis asked.
Bardwell nodded again. “I believe that he is and his brother is carrying his assortment of Colts.”
“Dude,” Curtis said.
“What?”
“It will be good to have some extra guns going into this one,” Curtis said, drawing on his smoke.
“For once,” Bardwell said. “Yes.”
“Them Red Owl boys will play for keeps,” Curtis added. “You know that don’t you?”
“Where did you hear that?” Bardwell asked.
“I don’t know,” Curtis said. “I heard it from some old gunslinger that I met once or twice, maybe?”
Both lawmen laughed. The hour was getting late and a pack of coyotes nearby howled up at the starry night sky. It was the borderlands that they called the place. The badlands was closer to the truth when it came down to it. Nothing good ever came out of this place where no man would live for long.
“But,” Bardwell said. “You’re right, Son. They will play for keeps once it gets started. We’re trespassing as far as they are concerned, pissing in their sandbox.”
“Pissing in their sandbox,” Curtis said laughing. Smoke from the cigar drifted up on unseen currents of air. “More like we’re dropping our trousers and taking a big old stinky shit right in the middle of it if I know what I think I know?”
Bardwell spit in the fire.
“Yes, Sir,” Curtis added. “A big old steamer is what I reckon you plan to leave.”
“Why do you always think the worst of me, Son?” Bardwell asked.
“Because that’s what you do,” Curtis said. “And I don’t mean that in a bad way, Sir. You just seem to find a way of blowing up shit every time we go after some outlaw? Admit it, every time that we ride out, shit gets blown up, right?”
“I reckon that you’re right,” Bardwell said.
“How many assignments have I ridden with you on,” Curtis asked. “Thirty or forty or fifty…?”
“I reckon.”
“And how much shit have we blown up?” Curtis asked. “Los Angeles, that freaky doctor’s private railroad…”
“We didn’t blow up Los Angeles,” Bardwell said interrupting. “It looked like that when we rolled in.”
“That guy’s flying machine in the desert,” Curtis went on.
The lawmen went on in this fashion for a time before they let the fire burn down and covered with their wool blanket for some shut-eye.
By the time that a morning sun clawed its way into the nuclear morning sky, the lawmen had already logged a few miles in the saddle.
Bardwell was the type to rise early and start the day ahead. Curtis was more of the type to sleep late and work even later into the night, but after riding with his elder over the past few years, the young lawman complied. There wasn’t any use in bitching anyway, he figured, nothing would come of it.
It was a long two-day ride to the southern outpost of Tulare down on the border. Border hell, it was more like the very end of the earth these last few years with outlaws and desperadoes of every sort known to man, running amok just across that imaginary line drawn on the map. North of the line was civilization and humanity, south of it…well.
Grass for the horses had grown poor over the past few calendars and the water wasn’t so good either, but it would do. It had most of the years Bardwell had been trailing outlaws down this way.
Curtis pointed further south in the coming light. A small herd of mutant antelope bounded off across what amounted to desert grassland here in this Godforsaken place.
“So how are we going to do this, Sir?” Curtis asked. The young lawman figured that he could already answer the question, but it didn’t hurt to talk as the dusty miles passed.
“I reckon we’ll have to see what these other two have in mind?” Bardwell said, spitting to the ground below.
“That’s it,” Curtis asked. “You are planning to defer to a pair of newbies probably out away from home for the first time?”
Bardwell spit again. “I didn’t say that Son,” he added. “I just figure that we should have us a good talk with these boys and see what they have in mind. See how they want to go about this.” He paused, “They may be young, but keep in mind that the powers that be have sent these boys special to be in on this one.”
“I know, Sir,” Curtis said in passing. “But it just seems odd to me that you of all people on this earth would be willing to defer to a pair of young bucks Sacramento has decided to send down this way.”
“Maybe the objective is different this time?” Bardwell said.
“You want to know what I think,” Curtis asked.
Bardwell smiled. “Do I have a choice?”
“I think those in power are sending these kids down this way to keep an eye on us, you?” You in particular, maybe?” he said.
“Listen, Son,” Bardwell said. “I’m not worried about it none, so I don’t see any reason for you to go losing any sleep over it. Our objective this time out is heavily fortified and these fellows will be organized and well-armed.”
“Like I’m going to listen to that,” Curtis said. “And coming from you of all people, really? Sometimes I have to wonder if you don’t carry your balls in those saddlebags.” Curtis continued rambling, “I’ve seen you walk into shit that a lunatic would stop to think over, come on.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Bardwell said, straining against the distance to see two dark figures in the road ahead.
“Is that them?” Curtis asked.
Bardwell sat up in the saddle. “I reckon it is,” he said, still straining to make out the two gentlemen in the dusty road ahead. He reached out his timepiece and had a glance. It was just after 2:00 and a blazing daystar hung in the dirty sky overhead.
The distance was closed in no time at the pace they were keeping. Bardwell reigned his mount in, raising his right arm to expose the ink of the five-pointed Sacramento star on his wrist. “Afternoon gentlemen,” he said.
Both of the dismounted gentlemen raised their arms also exposing a five-pointed star. “How are you this afternoon?” The taller, blonde fellow said. “I’m Silas Ritchie and this is my brother Jaxen Castro.”
Castro nodded standing between his saddle horse and a third pack animal.
“Dan Bardwell,” Bardwell said, dismounting in the road. “And my partner Curtis Franklin.”
“The pleasure is ours,” Ritchie said, bowing the low bow of the elders. Bardwell lowered his head. Curtis—still mounted—reached up and tipped his hat with three fingers “Howdy,” he said.
Bardwell looked over the young lawmen standing under a white-hot sky. They were both young, he figured the tall blonde boy was the elder of the two. Drab green pack boxes were fitted to the third animal with long tubes strapped over the top of the outfit.
Jaxen Castro carried the long barreled Dragoon pistols of a gunslinger with a worn leather bandolier crossing his chest and shoulders. His brother—Silas Ritchie—had a rapid-fire Colt 1911 holstered at his side with another of the same make slung under his arm in a shoulder rig.
Curtis stepped down to the dirt reaching for a cigar in his saddlebag. “You say that the t
wo of you are brothers?” he asked, looking over the young lawmen from Sacramento.
“Yes, Sir,” Ritchie said smiling.
“Same mother,” Castro added. “We have different fathers.”
The two young men looked about as far apart as two lads could, Ritchie was tall and thin with yellow hair flowing from under his black hat. He had fair skin and light colored eyes.
Castro, on the other hand, was a touch shorter and of a stockier build with darker skin and brown eyes. When the boy lifted his hat to wipe away the sweat forming on his brow, Curtis nearly laughed out loud. This lad had curly brown hair that looked more like that of Curtis.
“Are you fellas new to this business?” Curtis asked. The pair did look quite young for the job ahead. In all honesty, neither was much younger than Curtis himself.
“No, Sir,” Ritchie said. “Graduated in the class of thirty-nine and you, sir?”
Curtis smiled. “Thirty-seven,” he replied.
Bardwell laughed out loud. “It’s starting to look like Sacramento is leaning on me for babysitting.”
All four lawmen laughed.
“So what’s the plan, Sir?” Ritchie asked.
“Well,” Bardwell said. “It’s hot out here gentlemen and we’ve still got several rods to cover before nightfall. I reckon that we should mount up and start in that direction to see if we can cover some ground before nightfall?”
The Sacramento lawmen mounted up with Ritchie riding next to Bardwell. Curtis fell in alongside Castro leading the pack horse.
“What do you reckon, Sir,” Ritchie asked. “Two days in getting there?”
Bardwell spit. “I figure that’d be about right.”
Behind, Curtis fished around in his saddlebag for a smoke. He offered Castro one before he struck a sulfur match.
“No thanks,” Castro said, biting a fair amount from a twist of tobacco and slipping it down in his pocket. The youngest of the four lawmen spit over the side with the brown juice forming a stream to the dirt below.
“So, it’s Castro, huh?” Curtis asked. “I take it that you speak Spanish?”
“Me,” Castro said, smiling. “Not so much, but my brother Silas there, he can talk up a storm.”
“Huh?” Curtis said.
“Did you think that it would be otherwise?” Castro asked, laughing somewhat.
“Well,” Curtis said. “Yeah, I did.”
Curtis liked the idea of having someone to talk with as they rode the dusty miles under a scorching sun. Even when it was just he and Bardwell, Curtis talked. At times, Curtis would talk for what seemed like hours before Bardwell would respond.
“Dragoons, huh?” Curtis asked, in trying to strike up a conversation as they traveled east. “You mind?”
Castro unsnapped one of his saddle gun holsters and reached one of the weapons across.
“Nice,” Curtis said, taking in the weight of the pistol. “We usually see the Mexican vaqueros and banditos carrying these things?”
“I am half Mexican,” Castro said, smiling.
“Converted?” Curtis asked.
“Oh, yes,” Castro said. “I had it done the year I finished at the academy. I like the smell of black powder just as well as the next fellow, but it sure makes loading on the run a lot easier.”
“I hear you,” Curtis said. “Had mine converted the year that I graduated also. Hugh Cook did mine back home.”
“Cook did mine also,” Castro said, nodding his head. “He does good work, that gentleman.”
“I’d be surprised if he were still in business now,” Curtis added.
“He is,” Castro said. “As old as dirt, but he’s still got his shop there on Firehouse Alley right next to the River City saloon.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Curtis said smiling. He thought back to the days of his youth and graduating with that five-pointed tin star pinned to his chest. Those were the days, well before tracking outlaws across the country and shootouts in the middle of nowhere. Hell, he hadn’t given thought to where he’d be bedding down for the night and that was well before he was partnered with Dan Bardwell up ahead.
The sun was dropping down into the tired western sky. Great clouds of ash smeared across the horizon in amber and red. Bardwell was up ahead looking for a place to camp for the night.
“You boys see any problem with staying here tonight?” Bardwell asked, stepping from his mount.
“No, Sir,” the two new boys said in unison.
Water ran in a small creek cutting its way across the grasslands. There were trees to provide firewood with a sizable clearing for the four of them to lie down. Grass for the horses was to be had nearby.
Bardwell unfastened the cinches and pulled his saddle off. He led his mare downstream and hobbled the animal for the night. “Now you be good, girl,” he said in a low voice.
The younger lawmen followed suit, unsaddling their horses for the night and put them out to graze.
Bardwell gathered up an armload of sticks from under the trees as he walked back to the center of the clearing. The senior lawman retrieved a flint and steel from his saddlebag and kindled up a small fire.
“Hey,” Curtis said, to the other two as they walked back. “We probably should gather up some sticks for the fire on the way back or old iron britches will just make us go back out.”
“Of course,” Ritchie said, bending to gather firewood. “How long have you been riding with Bardwell?” he asked.
“Ten years I reckon,” Curtis said. “Thinking about it that way, it sure does sound like a long time.”
“I bet you’ve seen some things?” Castro asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Curtis said smiling. “I’ll have to tell you about it sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Castro said.
The early evening silence was shattered by three quick shots from nearby. The two young brothers dropped the sticks they carried reaching for their side arms. A fourth shot was fired. Curtis stood laughing. It wasn’t like there wasn’t a time when Bardwell’s shooting hadn’t brought him on the run.
“It’s okay, you two,” Curtis said, trying to keep from laughing. “He’s just taking care of dinner for us.”
“Dinner…?” Ritchie asked.
“Yeah,” Curtis replied. “You fellas like rabbit?”
The three young lawmen returned to camp as Bardwell came over the rise carrying his kill for the night.
“We’ll take care of those, Sir,” Curtis said, removing a long blade from the sheath at his side.
The night had closed down around the lawmen when Curtis and Castro returned with the skinning chore finished. Bardwell had busied himself with sharpening a skewer for each so the meat could be roasted over the small fire. A can of coffee boiled next to where the cooked meal was.
After dinner, Curtis struck a parlor match to light the stub of a cigar that he had carried through the afternoon. “So what’s the plan, gentlemen?” he asked, drawing hard on the rolled tobacco burning just inches from his face.
Richie cleared his throat looking first to his brother and then Bardwell who was busy sipping coffee from a dented tin cup. “The Intel that we have is that Nate Butterfield and his boys have taken up residence in an abandoned prison down this way.”
“And…?” Curtis asked.
“The place is heavily fortified with iron gates and guard shacks at the entrances,” Ritchie added. “They’ve got some of the best weapons the elders had at their fingertips.”
Castro fished around in his saddlebag.
“Look, guys,” Curtis said. “The boss and I have walked right into Los Angeles like we owned the place and we’re still here. Fuck,” he said. “We walked into Broken Hill last year and set Black McDaniel’s flying ship afire.” He paused to catch his breath, “We burned the whole damned place down and here we are still. How bad can this be, really?”
Castro rolled out a map of the facility layout. Bardwell and Curtis moved in closer to see in the firelight.
“Sir,” Ritchi
e said, tracing his finger over the rough outline of the fortified complex, “This place is unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”
“Like sentries and lookouts?” Curtis asked, looking over the paper map in the firelight.
“Yes,” Ritchie said. “They have it well guarded against what we know, but honestly, no one knows for sure as no one that we’ve ever talked to has been inside.”
“Has anyone even been close,” Bardwell asked. “Since Butterfield took command of the place?”
“No one with the department,” Ritchie said. “We were hoping that the two of you would know someone down this way as you ride through this country so often?”
Curtis looked to Bardwell across the fire. “You think of anyone?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Bardwell said. “There’s always someone that has been poking around where they shouldn’t have been. The matter is going to be finding someone willing to talk about it.”
“So we’re going straight to the saloon,” Curtis asked laughing, “someone’s always talking over a glass of whiskey.”
“So be it,” Ritchie said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“How much area are we dealing with here?” Bardwell asked, rubbing two days growth on his chin.
“The fortified compound,” Castro said. “Might be a hundred acres, maybe a little less?”
“It’s that big, huh?” Curtis asked.
“Yes,” Ritchie said. “You’ll be able to see it for yourself in a day or so.”
“So,” Curtis asked. “Why do they call this guy Kneeling Nate?”
Bardwell chuckled.
“His old man was said to be a preacher man,” Castro said, spitting tobacco juice in the dying coals of the fire. “Must have been on his knees a lot as a boy?”
Curtis laughed removing a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags. “Good,” he said. “I was thinking something else.”
He had a good pull of whiskey and handed the bottle to Castro who took a turn before handing the bottle off to his half-brother, Ritchie.
“So you boys think that we can gain access,” Bardwell asked. “Once we get there?”
Ain't No Law in California Page 23
